air in d major
by moeten
Summary: It's September 18th, 1964, and Anthony is in Golden Gate Park when he sees it.


_originally written october 2012._

* * *

It's September 18th, 1964, and Anthony is in Golden Gate Park when he sees it. He lifts his camera and takes three pictures, thinking at first it might just be decorative.

Photo One: The police box, filling much of the shot, taken low and straight on so it looms above like a monument, heavy and imposing, at odds with the greenery, at odds with everything but itself.

Photo Two: A wider shot, taken from twenty feet back and framed in thirds, the police box on the far left, nearly blending in with the tree ferns, a stray frond protruding from behind it like an open arm. The footpath taking up the center of the picture, and stretching up ahead, so it looks like the focus. Six different people can be seen walking along the path: a mother and a child no older than two, the boy turning his head away; two different couples, one sharply dressed and arm and arm; a man in the far background on a bench; a second man just about to follow the curve of the path out of sight. None of them are looking at the box, none of them seem to notice it, although it's in clear view and not in shadow.

Photo Three: Same wider shot, the man in the couple that isn't sharply dressed turning his head to say,

"Oy! What are you doing, photographing my box?"

Anthony lowers his camera. "Your box?"

"Yes, my box," says the Doctor. The girl he's with—Anthony is almost afraid to look at her, this person who he's not grown up hearing bedtime tales about, this person that is not his parents—follows, looking amused. She's short, Anthony thinks, and then: she's also quite pretty. The Doctor looks as he'd expected, and Anthony's heart seems to be going too fast to be healthy, which is strange because he also can't feel his extremities and you'd think a higher pulse would be sending blood to them. He fumbles with his camera and puts it down, sticks out his hand.

"I'm Anthony." The Doctor looks at his hand like he expects to find something in it, and he puts it down a little embarrassed. "I'm called Anthony Williams."

"Called by who?" The Doctor is all grins and buoyant suddenly, Anthony supposes he's passed whatever thing he was being judged of, and his heart is jackhammering away. Except: Hang on. He'd said his name expecting something to happen, the Doctor to do a double take, assume, figure out who he _was._ And okay, he's adopted but he's always thought he looks passingly like his parents anyway, having spent every day of his life save one with them, but maybe his name isn't uncommon enough to be noteworthy at all—only he'd been expecting magic.

"By my parents and friends," he says, "but my mom calls me Tiny because I'm only five-eight."

"_Only_," says the girl, and she really has a very nice smile even if she is short.

"I'm the Doctor. My friends call me the Doctor. So do my enemies. So does everyone else. And this is Clara! Hello, Anthony, what were you doing taking photos of my box?"

"It does sort of stand out," Clara says.

"Perception filter! No it doesn't."

"I just graduated from college," Anthony says, a little bit firmly because he feels like they're about to bicker and he wants the attention on him, feels like if it's not, it'll be gone, he has this one chance, this one moment, he's not sure for what but _this is all he has; _it'll end and he wants to stretch it as long as he can. "School of Visual Arts, in New York. Photography. Bachelor's degree." He indicates his camera. "Decided to travel around and take pictures of things, I've been hitchhiking and it's been great, I left in March and am due back for Christmas." His parents, because they have always been weird and not just because they're British, sent him off fondly with the warning to not, under any circumstance, become a hippie. Whatever that meant.

"Ooh, is that your camera?" Clara asks, with interest. "It's so… antique."

"From New York?" the Doctor asks with interest. "Great city. Lovely city. Actually, no, every time I'm there the world just about ends. Terrible city. The Big Apple!"

Anthony shows Clara the camera, how it works in ten seconds, but he doesn't let her hold it, apologetically, because it cost basically his life savings even with his parents paying half. The Doctor contributes fun facts about cameras and Daguerre. Then he looks at the Doctor, skinny and weird looking, honestly, big ears and forehead and chin and basically no eyebrows, but his smile is eighty percent of his face and Anthony is thinking, _I need to ask for a photo. I need a photo of him_. And also, _I can't believe he has no idea who I am_, because he's always sort of imagined this happening someday and in all his fantasies the Doctor had figured it out straight off and reunited with his parents and Anthony would be a hero. Makes him feel twelve years old again, but there you go.

He raises his camera and is about to ask, but what comes out instead is: "Can I come with you?"

"Come with me?" the Doctor says, and he's gentle about it even if uncomfortably incredulous. "What makes you think we're going anywhere?" And he's pretty sure the Doctor's tone is curious and not confrontational.

"I just do," Anthony says, because suddenly he wants to find out how long it'll take the Doctor to realize his parents, surname _Williams_, are people he's met.

"Are you…" the Doctor leans in close, looking to either side, and he feels loomed in on as he continues, furtively, "…a fan?" Anthony nods slowly, a little scared to say or do anything else. "A fan!" the Doctor repeats, grinning again. He turns to Clara. "Never had an American fan before, probably. Just don't start a club," he says back to Anthony, in the same tone his mom had used to tell him not to stay away from tie-die. "Alright, you can come along. Just for now. We were just about to head to Yyedol 3."

"That's really all the thought you put into it?" Clara asks, sounding sort of huffy about her own status and asking exactly what Anthony is thinking as he stares at the police box and feels his palms begin to sweat.

"Yeah," the Doctor says, grinning, and then Anthony's suddenly getting his shoulder clapped.

"Wait!" he says, a little bit squeaky. "I need to take a photo of you!"

* * *

—

* * *

Photo Four: a man, gangly and tall, standing on a path in a park in a city, thumbs in his belt and jacket pulled back, showing a waistcoat color coordinated with his bow tie. He stands duck-toed with his shoulders relaxed, his hair flopping over his face, grinning like he's proud, like he's pleased, look at me getting my photograph taken, and in the background is the police box, out of focus and soft, lost in the shadows of the park and trees except for the very top, caught in the light by chance of shadow, the bulb at the top gleaming white.

When Amy finally turns it over, her son's handwriting is on the back: _Might be late for Christmas._


End file.
